


My Haunted Lungs

by moonlightof1982



Series: Haunted [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightof1982/pseuds/moonlightof1982
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa recalls ghosts from her past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Haunted Lungs

Petyr was just about to take her innocence for a second time, when Sansa woke from her blissful reverie. It was still the “Hour of the Wolf.” Her stomach was in knots, her skin alight, and her body was trembling. She walked over to her mirror, and examined herself. After her first night with Petyr, a wolfen specter invaded her consciousness. Her beautiful, and murdered direwolf “Lady”, was alive again inside her, and on the prowl. But the things she did with Petyr, didn't make Sansa feel like a proper lady. The specter floats up from her, and slinks off to commit wanton acts of debauchery that can not be explained. It wills her feet, controls her hands, and pries her legs apart. Even something as small as a rueful smile from Petyr can invoke it’s presence. 

“Gods, help me!”, exclaimed Sansa. She wanted to plead with the gods to quiet the beast, but once she got on her knees, praying would be the last thing she wanted to do. The direwolf was leering back at her through the mirror, with a chain about her neck, completely unhappy. 

It wasn't fair! Why can others sleep through the night, and not her? 

Sansa closed her robe, and left her bedchamber for Sweetrobin’s.

As she watched him sleep, she gazed at him with a strange admiration. He was so innocent, so untouched. She envied him for that. He knows nothing of deep desire. She wondered what kind of man would he grow up to be? Will he be gallant when desire rose in him, and be patient with his woman, or will be a rouge, enslaved to his need. Will his passion make him violent, and steal pleasure from a woman whether she wants to give it or not? Would he turn into the men like those of the mob?

A trickle of snot ran down his nose. Sansa wiped it off with the hem of her robe. This poor child may not live long enough to explore his passion. Maybe it would be a blessing.

She left his room, and walked in the direction of her own bedchambers. Once at her door, she recoiled at going back to her cold, and lonely bed, all alone. If she couldn't have Petyr for yet another night, then she would at least go to the place where he worked, and slept, where his essence was. 

She walked to the door of his solar, opened it and went in. She closed it, but thought best not to lock it for the sake of the servants. She put firewood in the hearth, lit and stoked the fire. A flagon of wine, and a clean goblet was on his desk, so she poured, and had a seat on a soft cushion next to the fire to stay warm. She thought back to the Tourney of the Hand. On the second day of the joust, Petyr placed two fingers on her shoulder. Her father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, looked at Petyr like he had just defecated in his boots. Her father saw what was happening, even before she did. It would be the first of many touches. It was the beginning of Sansa and Petyr‘s scandalous love affair! She also remembered herself, and him, in the Throne Room. He was so comforting and gentle. Such an hypnotizing presence to him. And when he told her that he would help get her home to Winterfell, she wanted to run to his arms, but instead she lied, and said she didn't need him. She was happy that he saw through her fallacy. She was even happier that he came back for her.

When she saw his boat leave, she prayed never-ending to the Seven that he would come back. She prayed even more after the Red Wedding, and her farce of a marriage to that misshapen dwarf. Tyrion, The Imp, was kind to her, yes, but she would not give her love, or her body to a Lannister. 

After Joffrey was assassinated, Ser Dontos (of the now extinct) House Hollard, carried to her to safety, and onto Petyr’s boat. Her poor drunken fool died that night at the hands of Petyr’s killers. She was so angry with Petyr for killing Dontos, but later, she forgave him, knowing that killing him was the wisest move for her. In the words of Sandor “The Hound” Clegane, “Dead rats don’t squeak!” As she sat by the fire, she sent up a prayer for Dontos and The Hound. Sansa closed her eyes, bowed her head, and said,

 

“In the name of the Seven, please protect Ser Sandor. Still the rage in his heart, and fill him with love and forgiveness. Give Ser Dontos the eternal peace that he could never find in life, and may the House of Hollard finally be as one.”

 

After her prayer, she drank a goblet full of the wine next to her. It was light and sweet, and had a amber hue to it. “Arbor Gold.” It was very nice, and easy on the throat as she swallowed.

A few moments later, the entire flagon was empty. She stumbled to her feet, and a dizzy wave passed over her. She nearly fell down, and had to steady herself on the desk near the hearth. Documents flew, and scattered to the floor. An inkpot opened, and leaked it’s contents onto some of the papers. “Oh, Seven Hells!”, said Sansa, slurring her words. She laughed at the mess she was making, and staggered away. She was too drunk to go back to her room, so she walked gingerly over to Petyr’s bedchamber.

There was not one candle burning in the chamber. It was pitch back and stone silent. Because of the wine, Sansa started to get too warm, so she removed her robe and night shift. She stood unabashedly naked. Since it was dark, and no one was here, she did not bother to cover up. 

She fumbled across the blackened room, and found the Myrish Lace. Once again, it felt heavenly on her bare skin, and even though the linens had been washed and dried, they still smelled of Petyr. She rolled around on the bed, feeling the fresh softness of them. She wrapped herself up in them, and let her hands rove over her breasts. As she flicked her pink nipples, Sansa could hear the low growling.

Her wanton direwolf was starting to stir. Lady was pulling at her chains again. She caught Petyr’s scent, and started to whimper. 

“Where are you, Petyr?", whispered Sansa. 

She rolled out of the sheets, wrapped the lace around her index and middle finger, and started to rub the pink, and sensitive nub between her thighs. It reacted immediately to the feel of the lace, and sent sweet pleasure in every direction. Her nipples hardened, and turned from bright pink to deep red. Her eyes closed, and her breath started to quicken. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of Petyr, and her flesh was on fire from her fondling. Her lungs were haunted with the air, and the essence of him. Lady was out of her chains, and roaming fierce and free in the wild! 

Sansa was an inch away from Ecstasy, when, to her surprise, she noticed that the heavy darkened room had become slightly illuminated. Not enough brighten the entire room fully, but enough to see the white stone walls of the room. In the haze of pleasure, she thought that the morning had come, but outside the window, the full moon was still high in the black early morning sky.

Sansa opened her blurry blue eyes to see the focused, grey-green eyes of Peytr Baelish. His gaze was so unnervingly hot, overrun with anger, and darkened with lust!

**Author's Note:**

> It felt good to take it back a few seasons, and chapters, and revisit old characters. I send a shout out "Raskolnikova!" I used the comment and compliment that was given in "Kiss, Bite, Foreplay" in the last few lines of the chapter!


End file.
